Gemini
by PersianWitch
Summary: Did anyone wonder what would happen if Sherlock was faced with someone with similar deduction ability? rated T because I'm paranoid, but rating will go up with story progressing. Inevitably, S/J later. (temporarily abandoned since season 3 was not inspiring whatsoever.)
1. Chapter 1 Introducing Maligna

_**Witch's thoughts:** first attempt at writing Sherlock fic. I hope you'll enjoy it^^_

_Disclaimer: Sherlock and John don't belong to me (too bad) but to sir A.C. Doyle and BBC..._

_Beta: Rhea1305_

_reviews are much appreciated! now, enjoy :)  
_

* * *

"_Call the police."_

"_What happened!"_

"_I've found a dead body in the alley. Better it be us to report it…"_

"_A… are you joking? A body!"_

"_I told you. Let's call the police. If we are lucky they will know what to do with it."_

~o~o~o~o~

Sherlock pushed the door so hard that it hit a wall with a loud bang. All heads turned into his direction.

He smirked, noting the annoyance on Donovan's face. But the small feeling of another achieved goal in _making-her-pissed-with-only-his-presence _contest vanished quickly, when the detective noticed who else was in the room.

Aside Lestrade, Donovan and some other policemen Sherlock and John knew from their frequent visits, there were two girls, sitting quietly in their chairs. Both witnesses for the 'homeless' corpse case', found on railway station earlier this evening. The girls were complete contrasts; one was a blonde, blue-eyed "angel", trembling with each sob coming from her chest, while the other could be classified as average brunette. The only feature worth mentioning, as it seemed stunningly odd, was her icy calm. She was sitting stiffly on her chair, with arm around the shoulders of her friend.

"You are the one that found him dead." Sherlock stated, pointing at her. John looked at him, surprised. The dark one was calmer, whilst the fair one showed every symptom of nervous breakdown. Any normal human would assume it was the blonde who found the body, judging by her reaction, but then again, Holmes wasn't normal, no matter what criteria one would apply.

The dark haired girl nodded mutely.

Lestrade chose this moment to give the details to Sherlock, who drank the stream of information like a sponge. It was a really simple case: a homeless man was found dead in the alley near train station, however what caused Lestrade to call Holmes was that the man wasn't exactly 'homeless'. As the police had managed to verify, he was one of the most prominent presidents of a very influential company, not some unknown dressed like a rag. Yet, nobody had reported him missing. Nobody was alarmed when the man didn't come to work today. As if he was nonexistent.

Holmes smirked.

"Who are they?" John glanced at the calmer of the girls, as all the policemen did, surprised at hearing her unexpected question.

"Are they also detectives?" the dark one asked again, unaffected by the many stares. "Can I see their badge?" Her friend stopped sobbing; now trying to wipe off her tears

Lestrade wanted to say something to explain the situation to the girls in calm, nonthreatening voice, but yet again, his speech was cut short even before it began. Sherlock stepped forward, with his own unique manner making all the people present to follow him.

"You are a Polish, most likely in your early twenties; you're on holiday but soon will return to University. You wanted to meet a friend of yours, who you have known for two years. You have a sister, about whom you're terribly worried and you're waiting for a message from her, expecting something bad. You are running a fever, since you've had a quite nasty cold recently but didn't want to postpone the trip." He said, throwing the words as if they were bullets. Sharply, he turned to the other girl, making her gasp and flinch unintentionally.

"You, are obviously a German, about twenty, studying biology or dentistry, accompanying your friend on her trip. You are the younger one of the two of you; you have an older brother and a sister and you live in Bavaria. You've had a birthday recently…" he babbled absent-mindedly, only from time to time looking at the girls, paying more attention to the documents he was going through on Lestrade's desk . In the silence that followed, the blonde whispered.

"Who is he?" she spoke for the first time, her voice still a little slurred from crying, but the harshness of her speech betrayed her German nationality

Lestrade once again made an effort to calm the witnesses, an action that would have been unnecessary, if Holmes not be there, but as he was needed in the case, it couldn't be helped. Then, he asked the Polish girl to repeat her testimony, emphasizing without words that it was Sherlock now she should be addressing in her speech. The girl nodded.

The role of the girls seemed minor, in no immediate danger since they had not seen the murderer's face. They were supposed to meet their friend so she could pick them up, but as the two of them lost their way, the Polish girl left the other with their luggage and went to find the way. She nearly stumbled over the body, going around the corner of one of the alleys. They had called the police. Lestrade admitted, at this point, that he had wanted to let the girls go free, but as it turned out it wasn't a usual beggar, they agreed to call Holmes. And that was all.

Sherlock glanced at the dark haired one.

"You don't remember anything else? Maybe something strange about the body?"

John looked up at his flat mate, surprised by the change in his voice. He wasn't the usual irritated four-year-old or ecstatic crime lover; he sounded genuinely curious. Not that he needed to, John thought, he must be trying to get some details then.

The Polish girl slowly shook her head in denial. This gesture made Sherlock let out an exaggerated sigh, before he improved his own mood by talking Lestrade into letting him see the corpse. However, the second time the door banged at the wall made all of them wince, as another young woman stormed inside. She turned out to be the English friend the two witnesses and now she demanded let her take the two girls to her house to let them recover from the shock. And against her loud self-confidence, the police could do nothing, especially that the girls were undoubtedly innocent. Lestrade looked shortly at Holmes, who nodded.

The girls took their bags, walking to the door still with arms wrapped around each other. The blonde seemed to have weak knees as she was leaning on the Polish girl, who was taller and less fragile than she was. John smiled warmly at them, trying to reassure her without words. Those young women had encountered some things that one should not see, ever. They needed a little support.

"_Do zobaczenia_, Miss." He heard Sherlock say, causing the Polish girl to turn her head sharply to look the detective in the eye. Her ponytail smacked her face, as she gave Holmes a look that could burn whole cities to ashes.

"I have nothing more to say, Mister Holmes" she said in icy cold tone, her voice faltering a little on some of the sounds, with her strange, soft accent. She seemed unused to using English, and if Sherlock was right, she came from Slavic country with a melodious language.

John was a little curious about that, but given London was already infested with Poles, not too much. He liked her voice though, even if tired and… wait a minute, scared? Was she scared of Sherlock? Why so? And what the hell did he tell her?

He cornered Holmes just after they left the Yard, but was shrugged off with little effort. Sherlock didn't want to talk about it.

Hours later, when they came back to Baker Street 221B, after running all over London and spending bloody _ages _in Bart's, where Sherlock wanted to test his new experiment, John was too tired to even try asking him about the girls. It seemed so far away in time, that he'd forgotten all about it completely, until Sherlock reminded him.

"Now, we can be sure that Miss Polish is innocent" he said, holding his hand high and looking at the glass filled with something dark from this perspective.

John eyed him, frowning. "What are you talking about? They are innocent, they couldn't have done it."

"Not _they_, but _she_, and yes, she could have done it, John" Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if tired of how slow one particular doctor could be sometimes. But then again, he couldn't fight his habit to explain it to his partner. "She went there alone, there was enough time and considering the body was just stabbed, anybody could have done it. Especially someone who _found_ the man."

"So, you say that she is innocent, all in all?" John took off his jacket, hanging it on a nearly chair. He stepped into kitchen.

"Too weak." Was the only answer he got, before he heard Sherlock pacing in the living room, knocking things down and move the papers all over the room. John ignored it; it just meant that his troublesome flat mate was thinking something over, solving some case he didn't tell about or simply wondering how to torment Mycroft again. But the sound of something crashing made John jump into the room.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the carpet, frozen as if in realization, when the glass container lay in pieces on the floor, with the dark red liquid sipping slowly through cracks.

"What the…"

"I have to see that girl. Have to question her again." Sherlock turned on his heels, grabbing the coat and scarf. Sighing with remorse, John followed him.

He knew full well that if he didn't, someone was going to die. Holmes seemed restless; there was no taxi around and he stood around waiting for it, completely unmoving. John jogged to join him on the pavement.

"But the police already questioned them" he reminded Sherlock, whose frantic waving of arms caused one of the cabbies to stop ignoring them. "What's the point in doing that again? Lestrade is good at his job".

Sherlock looked at him with a sigh of frustration.

When they were finally seated and going to Yard again, he said, "Maybe. But she may be accused of murdering this man, if Lestrade is as stupid as I think he is, given he still has Anderson near." He said, glancing outside the window, at London lit with sunset light. He was so occupied with his thoughts that at John's startled 'What?' He just shrugged.

"If I'm correct, and I know I am, right now, that Polish girl was arrested by the Scotland Yard, accused of a murder, when they found the blooded knife in her luggage." He said as if it was a news review "not even considering that it was impossible… oh, here we are!"

John hated the way Sherlock thought that everyone else was inferior to him. In truth, they were, but this wasn't making the situation any better. He knew that something was wrong, he felt it unconsciously, when entering the Yard and even still going up the stairs, he couldn't dismiss a scratchy feeling of uncertainty.

The dark haired girl was there, as Sherlock had said she would be, but right now handcuffed and sitting on a chair with two policemen on each her side, and with her English friend who was arguing with Donovan. He felt Sherlock growl quietly, speeding his steps. Lestrade sighed with relief, noticing him, going through the office with determination of a tank.

"We…" the detective began, only to be interrupted by Sherlock's annoyed voice.

"…made a fool of yourselves, yes I know" he barked back, storming past Lestrade and stopping near the Polish girl. She looked awfully calm, for someone cuffed and surrounded with police officers: most people wouldn't be.

And before her friend could start her shouting again, Sherlock spoke, "I know that you are innocent. Now, stop hiding it and tell me what you saw."

Ignoring the surprised gasps and Donovan's objection, he leaned closer to her, to look her in the eyes, as she had done previously. She didn't blink.

"I've seen nothing more than I already said." She stated calmly. With Lestrade coming behind him, to grab his arm and John, who tried to make some sense from what he was just hearing, Sherlock started to pace around the small cubicle.

"She is feverish, not quite healthy from her previous cold, she's not muscled much, meaning she doesn't train on daily basis, her fingers are not callused, but would be if she had to hold something rough like a knife handle for a longer period of time, so tell me Lestrade, how an untrained, sick woman could stab to death a middle aged, healthy man?" with each word, his voice was higher and more angry. John knew this voice. Holmes used it with people who were too stupid to understand him, or were lying to him on purpose. Was she lying?

"Who the hell are you?" the English woman stepped forward, guarding the 'culprit' from Sherlock, who from his side, tried not to be pushed backwards. He narrowed his eyes, annoyed, making John jump between them. Sherlock was lazy enough not to do anything to her, not physically that is, but who knew what he was going on in his mind? To achieve what he wanted, he was able to do really strange things, and John didn't want to have more casualties on his conscience than he already had, from not preventing Holmes' actions in time. But he saw that the woman was tough as well, as she didn't even flinch under Sherlock's heavy gaze.

"It's alright, Sarah."

The three of them jerked back to look at the dark haired girl, who was still sitting quietly and looking at them with her grey eyes shining with fever. She seemed not to mind the audience, but her attention was exclusively focused on Sherlock. Tilting her head to the side, she turned with small smile to her friend.

"It's alright. They'll help me" the woman wanted to say something, surely to protest, but Sherlock pushed her aside, again getting access to sitting girl, now grabbing her arms and holding her still. All people in the room were frozen by intensity of their gazes, grey looking into grey, so much so that the air between them seemed to thicken. The girl blinked, moving her hands so the handcuffs made clicking noise, and their connection broke, as Sherlock snorted.

"We will, if you tell me _what have you seen._" he said annoyed, letting her go and turning around, so that he didn't see the look of disappointment crossing her face. When she spoke, her voice was again indifferent and a little resigned.

"I've already told you everything."

Sherlock scowled at her, turning on his heels so quickly that his coat's tails danced around him. John knew that a cutting answer was forming on detective's lips; then, in a split second his expression softened, growing first slightly astonished, as if an idea that didn't occur to him was revealed, then he frowned. Unfortunately, Lestrade chose this moment, to try and turn detective's attention back to the case.

"Sherlock, would you stop…"

"You are a Polish, you have in genes not trusting the police… but you say you're not hiding anything… you saw; you talked; you testified…" he mumbled, questioning and answering his questions himself. Nobody dared to voice objections, nobody wanted to interrupt Sherlock's way of thinking, and all people present followed him with their eyes except John, who kept looking from Sherlock to the girl and back again. She was observing the detective intently, as if waiting for him to get the idea she wanted him to. And when he did, he smiled as only Sherlock could and John unconsciously, immediately knew that something was going to happen.

And he didn't like it at all.

~o~o~o~o~

The girl turned around the corner, looking carefully around, trying to guess what to anticipate from the crawling shadows. She was scared; even the lightest movement of a dirty paper on the ground, was making her jump in nervous, unfocused stumbles that held very little resemblance to the self-confidence a blackmailer should have. Because she wasn't here just for a walk, no sane person would be there if they really didn't have to. And yet, she stepped further into dark alley.

A cat leapt from a trash can, observing the girl with yellow gaze of a devil.

"You shouldn't be here." A voice from the deepest darkness made her jump to the nearest wall, before she managed to compose herself enough to step forward. The murderer laughed shortly, still hidden, "I have the tool. One thousand pounds or I'll ask the police how much would they pay for their proof. What a funny little girl you are, my lady."

The irony was icy cold and raw madness in the man's voice was terrifying. Nonetheless, the girl found voice in her throat to answer, hoarse, forced sound of cornered animal, that knows its only chance to get away is to fight. She drew in a shaky breath.

"You stabbed Mister Collins with the army knife and hid it in my luggage."

The murderer said nothing, but the shape moved in the shadows. Clenching her fists, the girl went on.

"Analysing who was around me and my bag during the probable time of the murder wasn't so hard, as well as getting the video from security camera from the police. Even your number was easy to obtain, since it was you who received the message."

The silence from shadow followed. The girl threw a nervous glance around, licked her dry lips to gather enough wits and waited. Being well aware that the murderer was circling her in the darkness, where the street lights couldn't reach, she felt a cold chill going slowly upwards her spine, in the end nearly raising her hair. But she stubbornly stood in place.

"And my reason?" the voice sounded curious. The girl sighed inwardly with relief; he wasn't going to hurt her yet, he was still too interested in her speech and completely convinced of her harmlessness. So far, so good.

"You don't need a reason. It's called a thrill murder" she whispered, tensing. Now or never.

What happened later was only a blur of emotions and pictures. Policemen everywhere, snipers and officers with dogs, all of them jumped to overpower the murderer. The girl was pushed first down, then back, to a theoretically safe zone of police cars that now parked with screeching noise. Someone put a blanket over her shoulders; someone else forced her to sit down on one of the cars, giving her a sedative along with some water to drink. The noise was overwhelming, the man tried to escape, but there were too many people after him. Now, he was shouting, cursing and swearing, promising her living hell if he ever got out of police custody. The girl was trembling the whole time; but now, she shivered so much, that she nearly dropped the cup with water. Then, a warm, steady hand helped her hold it.

"Good job there" John said, when she sharply looked up at him "Can I?" he asked, pointing at space near her, obviously wanting to sit down, and as she nodded shortly, he did just that.

"Thank you, doctor."

"I believe we were not properly introduced yet. I'm John Watson." He smiled, adjusting the blanket on her shoulders with one hand, with the other urging her to drink her water. Only when she swallowed the pill, he held his hand to her. Taking it, she smiled weakly, her shivering stopping a little. She raised her eyes at him with gratitude and John was again taken aback by their colour. They were blue like a clear, cloudless sky, with some golden sparks and threads.

~o~o~o~o~

_Approximately two hours earlier_

John looked her into eyes, now brighter and more focused, as she was watching Sherlock. She has just identified a murderer for them, based only on some features and details she had seen on the murder scene, analyzing and deducing important facts with terrifying speed… they all looked at Holmes to see his reaction at the obvious similarity of methods in concluding. But, he only looked back at her, his eyes narrowed, body leaning just lightly towards her. Small smile was already forming on his lips.

"She is always like that" Sarah sighed heavily, causing all of people gathered in the room to look at her "knowing about everyone what they don't want her to know about them. Getting herself into trouble, you know."

"And why should we believe you, Miss?" Sherlock ignored English woman's statement, ignored a frustrated groan from Anderson and Donovan, ignored annoyed snort from Lestrade and even curious questions from John. As if they weren't there.

"You didn't want to make false statements, _that_ I can understand. You don't trust the police, but not many of your fellow countrymen do, so it's also understandable. Why didn't you defend yourself? Why should we believe you _now_?" Sherlock was observing her carefully, looking for any sign of hesitation, anything that could prove him wrong or right. But really, it wasn't the case, John was more than sure. Sherlock had a theory already, a theory he could prove and now he was only trying to make the girl talk. Why, god only knows, but surely, he had some reason to.

The girl closed her eyes for a second, inhaled slowly and started to talk in an indifferent, monotonous voice.

"You've been living alone for a long period of time, even though you have a brother, an older brother who is worried about you. You don't like him; as you hate his tendency to dominate, given you choose not to live with him, even if you needed accommodation. Instead you chose to find a flat mate, who would cope with your weird habits, if playing a violin and making experiments with phosphor can be called that. You are not a policeman, yet you work for them, it makes you a detective then…" she sounded as if she could go on and on, not looking at any of them, just watching the wall with calm gaze of someone who has all time in this world. Moving her hands made the cuffs click; but the sound died in a clap of Sherlock's hands.

"That's right Miss. Talk to me, talk to me more! Finally someone who thinks here!" he exclaimed, making her and everyone else twitch in surprise, so great was the delight in his voice. For the first time, the girl looked lost, glancing around unsure and John could see that her eyes had lost their sparks, again being grey and ordinary. But he didn't have time to think about it more, as Sherlock jumped to him, now suddenly enthusiastic and energetic, and caught him by the arms.

"Finally John! Finally something interesting!" he said with a strange smugness, turning to Lestrade in another second, only to catch him. The Detective Inspector looked like he was wondering whether he should listen to Sherlock or shoot him, his hand already choosing the latter option without talking it over with his brain, before he managed to compose himself. He ignored the rude comments as it was just a part of Holmes he had had to deal with for a long time and jumped to the core of his idea, filtrating the insults with skill.

"Lestrade, I need you now! Make yourself useful! The plan is…"

~o~o~o~o~

Her eyes were blue again, just like when she was analysing Sherlock. It amazed him, how much she changed just by some stupid detail as eye colour, it made her look prettier and more focused, weakening the image of dreaminess she emanated. She said something and he found he hadn't heard anything at all.

"I said, my name in English would be Margaret… or Marguerite, for that matter." Her voice was calmer, but trembling still; John fought back a feeling to hug her like a small scared kid. Instead, he decided that some small talk will do her more good.

"Nice name. Like a flower" he said, taking the cup from her, only to put it on a car's mask. The girl smiled at him, relaxing even if only a little. She gripped the blanket and John raised his hand to stroke her hair in supporting manner, before another remark made them both jump from surprise.

"Indeed like a flower John, but unfortunately she doesn't have anything in common with a flower. Maybe another name then?"

"Sherlock!" John jumped to his feet, seeing that the girl had tensed again, covering herself with the blanket to hide her arms. "Don't sneak! And what're you talking about?"

Holmes ignored him yet again this afternoon.

"You are like a lost girl wandering with a dog… How about 'Maligna', then?" he asked the girl, with interest watching as she paled.

"Doyou even_ know_…"

"I do know what it means in Polish. And I think it suits you." The detective said, amusement apparent in his voice, as he gestured John to calm down and observe. The girl tightened her lips in a thin line, before averting her sight and speaking.

"Do as you please, Mister Holmes."

The detective again clasped his hands, patting her head in patronizing manner, ignoring her sudden hiss of annoyance. Grinning mockingly, he said.

"Welcome to London then, my dear Maligna!"

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_**Witch again:** that word 'Maligna' IS Polish and will be explained soon, but... I wonder how many of you recognized that comment about a lost girl wandering with a dog... if you know what does it mean, you will know what 'Maligna' means as well^^_

_I hope you enjoyed reading it :)_


	2. Chapter 2 He dared, didn't he

_**Witch's thoughts**: I know, I know, this one sure took a lot of time to update. sorry -.-' I had to deal with some computer problems, then University was one hell of assignments and I had to write chapters for my main story, the Star Wars one, 'Troubles'. so, sorry again for the delay :sigh:_

_I want to thank Gen for reviewing the story^^ thank you very, very much! also, thanks for everyone that put this story on alert. it's a real motivation to write!\_

_now, enjoy^^ comments are much appreciated!_

_

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EDIT 22.11.2010: CHAPTER BETAED! (many thanks for Rhea 1305^^)_

_enjoy!  
_

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A week had passed since the end of the 'homeless corpse case'.

Sherlock was bored.

Such a state, for him, was normal It came over periodically and John had gotten used to them. He'd even learned how to recognize the first symptoms, allowing him to get out of the apartment, or on the contrary, stay when needed.

The detective was even more moody and hard-to-cope-with than usual, as he was able to jump on anything that would ensure his entertainment. John compared him to a small child: a really small child.

Nothing held his attention for more than half an hour, at best. No case was tangled enough to make him busy, to bring some hope to the more and more exhausting lives of John and even Mrs. Hudson, as they were the nearest people Sherlock could wreak his annoyance on. Nothing.

Holmes' excitement, after the case, died out with departure of two witness girls, the blonde German and the dark-haired Polish girl, who he had named _Maligna_, refusing to explain why. The girl herself was secretive, answering only when asked. There were odd times when she got into the flow and started to deduce something. Otherwise, it was hard to talk with her, guarded and distrustful.

John found her really tiring as a companion; however he could understand what she felt, being the one who had served as bait in a police ambush. Not pleasant, but seeing her unnatural calm during 'grey state' as he called it, she _was_ strange. Even without that deducing. On one hand, she resembled Sherlock; however, her analysis was entirely different, lacking his smoothness in jumping to conclusions. She was simply stating facts, leaving concluding for later. And she was at least _a little_ socially aware.

John sighed, when another cup crashed on the wall with crumbling noise. Sherlock was in his phase of breaking everything that he could get his hands on and his flat mate could only be grateful there was nothing valuable near. Drinking his tea quickly, John tried not to notice that Holmes again curled up on the sofa, pretending to be a sulking part of a cushion. If John hadn't been in a hurry to get to the hospital, as Sarah wanted him to take some more patients in today, he would try to save some of their utensils – right now, however, it was a lost cause.

Leaving, he knew that when he returned, he would find Sherlock in the very same position he was left in. Not an optimistic thought. Considering that Holmes was unbearable even when he was quite happy, the situation now equaled disaster. And, for now, nothing indicated a change in the mainstream of London crimes, meaning that he and Mrs. Hudson were to endure Sherlock's moods for some time still. Another not very optimistic thought, but if he was to count all such thoughts he had had since he woke up this morning, he would spend certainly too much time dwelling on it.

He needed time, needed to get the hell out of here, to the only place where Sherlock couldn't, or didn't yet want to, reach and worry him. Sarah was waiting, along with all sick and ill people, who wanted to meet him and get an advice on how to get better. It wasn't kind of work he wanted to do, not what he would chose given options; however, when options were limited, he was grateful for what he had gotten.

And Sarah…

John smiled to himself, thinking about his employer, now friend and… well, he could call her lover. Sarah was sweet and tolerant, had all the features he was looking for in the woman, what's more she didn't run away from him as soon as they'd freed her from Chinese mafia. Meaning she was courageous, which meant a lot, if she was to continue meeting Sherlock… wait a minute, actually, why should she? John shook his head with disbelief. Why the hell, all his thoughts were, in this way or another, still focused on Holmes?

He heard the clock's bell announcing the hour and he found himself really, terribly late _again_. Running down two stairs at once, he thought that without Holmes, his life would be perfectly normal, murder-less, ordinary, _boring_ period of time, with much wasted on how to make it more interesting.

In next second he mentally smacked himself for again thinking about Sherlock when he should just focus on getting a cab to get to work, but his mind giggled at him mockingly.

A sound of another mug crashing on the wall accompanied him even as he left 221B Baker Street.

/

In some magical way, everyone had made an agreement to make him loose his cool today. John didn't know why, but all the patients he checked had a lot of questions not connected with the check up itself, Sarah had a whole load of papers for him to sign, right there and then no matter how many patients were left, and _now_ he has just stepped in the apartment and already had to go with Sherlock bloody _somewhere_? No way in fucking hell!

John assumed that he deserved some free, quiet time to drink his tea. Sherlock faced with such fact only looked at him, quirking his eyebrow.

"You like it." He just said. And John had to agree, even if grudgingly. Especially after the call Sherlock received from DI Lestrade about another, _thank you God_, interesting case for Holmes.

Meeting the police on the murder scene was like performing a well-known, routine. John already knew that he'd better not cross his paths with Anderson, while Donovan rather liked him. He wasn't as bad as Sherlock was and, in comparison with the detective, he surely had an advantage. Not that Sherlock minded.

Holmes was walking on the crime scene, slowly circling yet another body, according to Lestrade. There was nothing on it, in fact all the clues suggested suicide. Still, Sherlock insisted that it was a murder and a clever one at that. But, he didn't want to tell anyone, why he thought so. His habit of explaining everything to other, more stupid and dull people, surprisingly didn't activate this time. Instead, he stood over the body of middle-aged woman, frowning as if something wasn't right, and John knew his expression. And he'd learned to be anxious about it.

He didn't manage to ask, what was particularly wrong, more wrong than a dead human can be, because Sherlock moved again, mumbling to himself.

"… two centimeters to right… while at shop… twenty years old… cat food… and a ring."

John felt his head starting to hurt. He understood even less than he usually did, but considering that he had a troublesome day up until now, and even more to the point, he'd had to put up with childishly sulking Holmes for about a week, he let the rebellious feelings take over him. He turned on his heels, not even looking back, when Lestrade threw him a questioning glance, only to reach the door, before Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving, can't you see?" he answered calmly, with strange smugness noting that Holmes was a little pissed off. Serves him right, though.

"You can't." the detective made a move as if he wanted to pull John backwards, but confronted with the other's stubbornness, he let go. "You can't go back yet."

"And why is that?" John asked calmly, but felt that irritation was already building up inside of him. First he was forced to come here when he was tired and feeling bad and now he couldn't even decide when he was going home? What a farce this was turning into?

Sherlock looked at him from under his long eyelashes. His gaze was all but pleading and that caused John to grit his teeth noisily. His hand itched to punch Holmes, to let off some steam for all whims he made both John and Mrs. Hudson to take care of. But he managed to calm down yet again, reasoning that if he hit Holmes here, police would lock him up for quite some time to cool down. And that was _NOT_ how he wanted to spend his evening.

"I need you here." Sherlock whined, again catching John's sleeve. The other man grunted in frustration. When the detective was using such a manner and volume of speech, it was certain that he wouldn't let him go, no matter what. Listening to the argument that would inevitably come after his response, if he would make an unconsidered one, John decided that if he shut up then and followed Sherlock's lead, they would still have a chance to go back to the flat…today.

/

That was six hours ago.

It was long past midnight and John came to a conclusion that murdering Holmes with in an extraordinarily brutal manner was worth every sacrifice, even being imprisoned for the rest of his life. He was exhausted from running over the whole city for god knows how long, his arms hurt from some weird experiment Sherlock assigned him to perform, forgetting about it a second after, his head was spinning from lack of energy due to no dinner. And, considering the time, a breakfast as well.

Even the fact that Holmes finally found the murderer didn't make any difference for John.

Dead tired, he only wanted to go to bed and sleep for another week. Thank God it was Saturday tomorrow… today. John looked at his watch and grimaced. If he had been a teen again, his mother would have murdered him for coming back so late, that it was starting to be early. Damn that Holmes and his sudden urge to eat chocolate.

And stopping for friggin' twenty minutes in the store to choose one.

Right now, Sherlock was happily trolling some recent radio hit, all high with adrenaline from a successfully finished case. Seeing his tall figure in front of himself, John was too tired even to think what way there were walking, following Holmes nearly mindlessly. If he hadn't been so energy deprived, he would have noticed that they were coming back home the roundabout way, the longest way possible.

When Sherlock danced onto the stairs of 221B Baker Street, John was seriously considering strangling him to death. How one could be so happy after such a long, tiring, no, _fucking exhausting_ day and still be so fresh? But oh well, Sherlock didn't have to go to work, to lose his energy in arguing with patients, to deal with their whims and made-up diseases. He only had to sit at home and sulk, waiting for something interesting to come by. Was it justice?

"Oh, already here, as I can see" he heard Sherlock saying, but before he could burst out and ask what the hell was his problem, John noticed that this sentence was not directed at him. Holmes was looking up, into their flat's windows.

In amazement John noticed that all lights were on.

They climbed up the stairs, with Sherlock not even trying to keep quiet and not to wake Mrs. Hudson up. John scowled, but Holmes was already on the first floor, opening the door to their apartment with a swing. Hearing a muffled gasp, John wondered who the hell was in their flat, so late at night. The place that was supposed to be more secure than the rest of the places Sherlock had a habit to be in. The taller man stretched his arms in gesture that was designed to be friendly, a smirk apparent in his voice.

"Welcome! I hope you haven't been waiting long…"

Maligna jumped from the couch she was sitting on and punched Holmes straight into face.


	3. Chapter 3 In the morning

_**Witch's thoughts:** I know how long has it been. sorry! I'm really sorry! but even now, I should be writting my master thesis and yet I finished this one... it's been sitting in my laptop for some time now, waiting for my attention and now is the day^^ not on hiatus anymore!_

_enjoy!_

* * *

Sudden, sharp sound of an alarm clock made Maligna jump on the bed, interrupting her by any means nervous sleep. Feeling frantically around, she found her cell phone under the bed and with relief, beeped the alarm off.

Even before she put her glasses on her nose, she knew something was wrong. Looking through lenses explained why she thought so. She was quite sure she didn't have such thing like a skull in her room. Hell, in her whole house.

Maligna moaned, covering her head with a blanket. At the same time, she couldn't not notice that the couch she had been sleeping on wasn't hers as well. With smack on her own head silencing the irritating voice of deduction, she sighed remembering the situation from the night. In the daylight she felt even bigger an idiot than in the yesterday's darkness.

/

Maligna sat down on the couch again.

"Now I should start to shout, proving you to be a perverted kidnapper, but let's skip this part, shall we? I'm tired." She mumbled through fingers, as she covered her face with hands. John blinked, unbelieving, before his mind kicked in with needed information.

"You are that girl… Margaret, was it?"

Ignoring Sherlock who was still sitting on the floor, dumbfounded by the punch, John made two steps inside the room, before he noticed that the girl shivered seeing him approaching.

"That's me." She agreed, but her voice sounded miserable and as tired as she claimed to be. Sitting on the couch, she drew her knees to her chest, encircling them with her arms and the man immediately felt some kind of connection with her. Both of them were brought here by force and deprived from their usual needs by Holmes, because Sherlock's role in Maligna being here was undeniable.

"What…"

"Ask him." Maligna cut John off, pointing at the second man, now again on his feet, even if still holding his cheek that started to swell. Just how strong that girl punched him?

Feeling a little confused, John was looking from Maligna to Sherlock and back again. They watched each other with some strange tension, the man trying to look as innocent as he could and the girl as if she didn't just punch a grown man down. Absurdity of such situation nearly made John laugh, more so because of his lack of food and proper sleep. Instead, he sighed and sat heavily down on the opposite side of the couch.

"Now, the two of you, please imagine that I'm as intelligent as you are and explain, what the hell is going on."

The next hour passed totally unobserved, as the story Maligna started was so ridiculous that it could actually be true, even more when considering the role of Holmes brothers in it. John watched as the girl slouched on the sofa, having finished the story and drawing her knees closer to her chest. He immediately felt sympathy for her, before taking in the situation as a whole.

"So what you are saying is…"

"I'm saying that I've been kidnapped." Maligna nodded indifferently, leaning back and supporting her head on headrest. She closed her eyes. "From the front of my university. Just like that. Doesn't MI6 have anything more important to do than kidnapping students?"

"You must be mistaken, Margaret." John smiled reassuringly. "I think there has to be some sort of mistake… and that's why you are here…"

"Don't worry." Maligna interrupted him, standing up abruptly "I'm going back tomorrow, earliest plane. Don't mind me."

"What about your grant then?" Sherlock emerged from the bathroom where he disappeared minutes ago, only to admire his swelling face in the mirror. His hair were wet.

"My WHAT?" at first glance Maligna seemed calm, but John could tell that she was pissed. Some women give off such a vibe, without shouting and swearing. She did too.

"Scholar grant, my sweet, _aggressive_ Maligna." Sherlock massaged his cheek, but smiled seeing that the girl crossed her arms on her chest as if to prevent herself from punching him again. "Besides, you won't get a pass to leave the country."

"That's taking me hostage." She stated.

John looked at both of the, at short girl and his tall friend. The air seem to be making small crackling noises in space where their eyes met. Silence was getting heavier and more thick, before finally Maligna spoke.

"I'm going to sleep. Lend me your couch."

"You can sleep in my bed." Sherlock said airily with his famous awkward smile. The girl twitched and waved her hand, already getting comfortable on the couch with a blanket, turning her back on them.

"Oh no. I'm not going nearer to you than I am now. Don't talk to me. No, don't talk to me." She barked when John just opened his mouth to say something. "I'm going to sleep. Maybe tomorrow everything will look less ridiculous. Night."

The men had no other choice than to leave the room and turn off the light.

/

Maligna sat up and tried stretching her joint until she heard a satisfying 'pop' sounds. Then she mumbled something offensive under her host's address when she noticed she slept in her day clothes.

"A cup of tea would be nice." She said to herself a little louder, pinching her nose to make her lazy mind work faster. She wasn't an early riser. But, a quiet rustle made her turn her head so abruptly, that for a moment she thought she twisted her spine.

"Oh, you are awake, dear."

_Mrs.__Hudson_, whispered her traitorous mind. Maligna made an effort to silence its voice in her head, but the annoyance stayed.

"Sherlock said you would be sleeping late and I just thought I'd check up on you, if you need anything." Said the woman in the door way. Through her glasses, Maligna quickly eyed her tweed dress and pearls around her neck.

_He__did__it__on__purpose_, she heard again and now it was enough. Maligna barked something incomprehensible under her breath.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." She said instead of all invectives that popped up in her head "A cup of tea would be wonderful. If it's not a problem."

Listening to woman's cheerful assurances that it is all perfectly alright and her steps on the stairs down, Maligna hunched tiredly on the couch, blanket pooling on her crossed legs. Even though she slept for quite a time, she felt terribly cranky and broken from lack of proper rest. And stress didn't help either. Maligna tensed. A memory of yesterday made her skin go goose-bumps with shivers. She didn't know what the hell was going on, but she didn't like it even one bit. Not that she minded being in London, because she didn't. The thing was, she did mind the way she came here, or actually, the way she was made to come here.

"You're up". Maligna jumped and wanted to scream with frustration from being surprised like that, not hearing when someone was standing at the door to the apartment. Besides, just seeing the younger of Holmes brothers caused her to grind her teeth and to try really hard not to repeat the punching from the last night.

Sherlock was standing in his coat and gloves, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway. Maligna quickly shut her eyes, grey and cloudy like a sky outside the window, trying to prevent her overthinking mind from analysing where he could have been already. As far as the morning went, she already tried to do a lot of things and majority of them involved restraining herself. Tricky.

"Surprised?" she mumbled rudely, standing up. She turned her back at him, folding the blanket and listening to the man move. But he was saying nothing and Maligna nearly _felt_ his amused gaze on her skin. Trying to busy her hands, she even smoothed the cape, but after ten minutes of silence, she couldn't bear with it anymore.

"What?" her voice pitched and sounded more desperate than she wanted it too. Even before herself, Maligna could hardly admit that Sherlock terrified her. A lot. Defensively, she backed off until her legs hit the couch.

Thumping on the stairs was loud like an elephant's steps, once it settled into a rhythm. Detective Inspector Lestrade, as Maligna remembered him, jogged to Holmes with a worried look on his pale and tired face.

"A murder on the Falkland Road. Are you coming?" the man said, watching Sherlock expectantly. _He__is__exhausted_, the mind told Maligna, even though she didn't want to make any assumptions to begin with. But it was hard to ignore, seeing dark circles under Lestrade's eyes and how much his complexion was like an oatmeal. She didn't like to see people like that. It was eating on her mind, a memory of someone looking at her with such eyes, resigned and just simply, deadly tired. She sighed and started to turn to grab her bag to find some clothes to change into after she found shower, but before she managed that, Sherlock grabbed her elbow and pulled with force.

"Of course we are going Lestrade."

When Mrs. Hudson was coming back from her kitchen with a cup of tea in her hands, she just saw that Sherlock was dragging dumbfounded Margaret by her hand and that a policeman tailed after them. Only when the front door nearly shut, Mrs. Hudson could hear that the girl obviously came to her senses, as through the police siren, her high voice was clearly heard.

"You want me to help you with WHAT?"


End file.
